


Flowerfell

by Fuffh



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:21:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuffh/pseuds/Fuffh





	Flowerfell

The first flower appears near their left temple, a small golden bloom that peeks out of their hair when they move around too much. Toriel is the one who notices it, after Frisk had died at her hands and had woken up in their bed by the Ruins.

They sit up quickly, a hand on their stomach where Toriel had hit them with a ball of fire that had broken their soul in half, breathing hard and shaking as they scramble to lift their clothes and inspect the damage.

Nothing.

No burnt clothes, no blood, no wounds. They are in their bed in the house in the Ruins, tangled in sheets and sweating bullets. Flowey appears to be asleep from where he’s placed on the desk beside the bed.

When they go into the living room, Toriel is there waiting, like they expected her to be, and when Frisk approaches, she asks if they would like to hear about the book she was reading.

Is it déjà vu when you’re sure that you remember – when you have a clear memory of things happening before?

“Ah, did you like the flowers in the hallway, my child?” she asks.

Frisk frowns, and then follows Toriel’s line of sight and starts patting their head. There’s something soft and thin at the left side and when they try to pull, a stab of pain shoots through their head. Frisk closes their eyes and hisses, staggering as their vision blackens.

“Child?” Toriel has stood up when everything clears, book forgotten on the floor and arms outstretched to catch Frisk should they stumble.

Frisk signs, I’m fine, and gives her a strained smile. It’s hard to smile at your mother when you remember them killing you.

Flowey only gives them a confused look when they reenter their room, deciding to postpone asking Toriel how to exit the Ruins again.

“You put a flower in your hair?” he asks.

Frisk shakes their head. Pauses. Looks down at the floor.

They sigh and sit down on the bed. “Don’t know,” they whisper. “Confused. Don’t know what happened. Had a confusing dream,” they wave a hand as they rattle off broken words. Their head is still ringing too much to make sense right now.

“I…” Flowey pauses and then clears his throat. “I think you died,” he says, “And returned to your last save point.”

Frisk raises an eyebrow.

Flowey sighs, “Go to sleep, Frisk.”

They lie down, but they don’t sleep.

Still, Frisk asks how to exit the Ruins, and still, Toriel stops them, again and again and again, until she decides to destroy the gate to Snowdin herself. And still, she challenges Frisk to a fight, threatening to bake them into a pie, too mad and too raw from having children disobey her before and dying at the hands of others.

Still, Frisk refuses to fight back.

They should be able to dodge now that they’ve fought the same battle twice, but Frisk jumps to the side too late and the fireball hits their eye. Frisk screams as the heat consumes half of their face and vision, their soul shatters, Toriel murmurs an ‘I’m sorry,’ and Flowey yells their name somewhere behind them before Frisk feels the ground being pulled underneath their feet –

And when they open their eyes, they’re staring at the ceiling of their room in Toriel’s house again.

“Frisk?” Flowey whispers, then, “Frisk! Frisk, are you okay?”

Their chest feels too tight when they breathe, and they put a hand on it as they try to steady themselves. Everything is spinning.

“Frisk,” Flowey nudges the boot he’s planted in and only ends up falling onto the surface of the desk face-first. “Dang it,” they groan, letting a vine sprout from the soil they’re set in and using it to push himself up.

Tears prickle at the edges of their eyes and Frisk covers their mouth with both their hands to muffle their sobs. Flowey stops what he’s doing and looks down instead, leaves curling in.

There’s another flower near Frisk’s cheek, a few inches from the one on their temple, but he doesn’t mention it until morning.

The next time Frisk asks to leave, Toriel looks at the new flower they’re sporting with a strange look, but her attention is quickly diverted by Frisk’s request. This time Frisk doesn’t let Toriel talk them into staying and instead runs down to the basement with Flowey in their arms, Toriel on their heels, shouting in anger.

The only warning they have is Flowey’s cry of “Look out!” before heat flares on their back and they stumble and wake up in their bed again.

There’s a new flower near their ear.

 

Frisk forgets how many times they ask Toriel to let them leave, forgets how many times they beg, forgets how many times they yell for freedom, forgets how many times they’re burnt in different ways and sometimes dragged to the kitchen screaming and feeling knives digging into their skin, forgets how many times Flowey cries over them and forgets how many times the voice at the back of their head says, “Stay determined. Stay determined. Stay determined.”

It sounds like them but at the same time it doesn’t.

All Frisk knows is that every time they die and wake up to the same ceiling that they’ve memorized every detail of, there’s a new golden adornment on their body. They hurt whenever they try to pull at the flowers, so they stop trying to get rid of them. Flowey explains the time jumps, but he can’t explain the flowers. Toriel just gets mad at Frisk’s request to leave to mention the child’s new decorations.

It takes a long, long time – when the flowers have covered half their face and a part of their left wrist – that they finally dodge the last attack Toriel has to give before she breaks down crying. Frisk huffs a breath of relief and sinks to their knees, their soul holding on by the faintest of threads.

Toriel tells them to be strong, and that there may be monsters out there who won’t have mercy on them, and that she’s sorry for trying to keep them here. Frisk smiles and signs, I forgive you.

“You remind me of a child of mine, once,” she says as she hugs Frisk for the first (and the last) time and Frisk buries their head in her clothes that smell of baked goods and fire. Their mother presses their foreheads together before Toriel goes back upstairs and never looks back.

Frisk carries Flowey with them out of the Ruins and watches as the doors slam close.

“Remind her of who?” they whisper. Flowey says nothing but keeps staring at the doors. At the back of Frisk’s mind, Chara’s voice doesn’t stir.

 

Sans the skeleton is the one that greets them near the bridge, trailing behind them until he speaks and his voice stills Frisk in fear. When they turn to face him, he’s got one hand in the pocket of his pants and a lazy grin on his face, single golden tooth at the side glinting in the light, as he looks at the stick Frisk has picked up from the path, idly dragging it through the thick snow. Flowey ducks his head. Frisk’s eyes drift to the golden star hanging on the chain on the monster’s neck.

A save point.

“What’cha got there, sweetheart?” he asks, looking at the stick. Frisk doesn’t answer.

He chuckles and holds out a hand, “Don’t you know how to greet a new pal?”

Frisk takes a moment before they drag their eyes down to the bony appendage being extended. They lift a hand, slowly, before grasping Sans’.

The electric shock that makes them convulses equals the mental one they’re experiencing.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you?” he drawls, but Frisk can’t see them. He’s getting far away and the side of Frisk’s face is getting cold. There’s white stuff everywhere. “In this world, it’s kill or be killed.”

When they blink, they’re staring at the closed doors of the Ruins again.

Frisk lifts a hand, adjusting Flowey’s boot-pot in the other, and stares at it.

“You okay?” Flowey asks.

“No.”

This time, they whirl around before Sans can speak and don’t take his hand when he extends it. They just clutch Flowey tighter to their chest.

“Kinda rude leavin’ a buddy hanging, don’cha think?” Sans asks. Frisk shakes their head.

He clicks his…tongue or whatever. His mouth never opens. Frisk doesn’t know how that works with speaking.

“So, where ya going?” he stuffs both his hands in his pockets and walks past Frisk and through the bars on the bridge. It’s wide enough for both of them to cross. Frisk doesn’t move and just looks at him.

Sans huffs, “You wanna freeze out here, honey, be my guest.”

On cue, Frisk shivers. They pull Flowey closer and the flower huddles to their form too. Frisk takes careful steps until they’re past the bars and beside Sans.

The skeleton makes a noise of satisfaction and continues walking. Frisk follows.

“There’s a town further ahead. Snowdin,” he says, “Ya headed there?”

Frisk frowns for a second and says, “Out.”

“Out?” Sans echoes, “Out where?”

“Out here,” they say and then point up.

“That’s kinda ambitious, sweetheart,” he stops in his tracks and Frisk follows his lead. “Especially with the folk around here. See, I’m a sentry around these parts and I’m supposed to capture a human,” he says, “But if you’re not dumb enough to trust everybody, I guess I can let you slide every now and then.”

Frisk shifts their weight from foot to foot nervously. Sans motions his head to the side, “Now, my brother. He’s a human-hunting fanatic. In fact, I think I can hear him coming now.”

In the distance, there are faint metallic stomps, and Frisk’s head snaps to the side, eyes wide. There’s a blurry smudge of red up ahead in the snow.

“Good luck, kiddo,” Sans closes one eye socket slowly in a facsimile of a wink, “Papyrus isn’t a fan of mercy.”

Half of their left forearm is covered in flowers when they finally notice the huge boulder at the side of the path and scurry to hide there when Papyrus approaches again. Thankfully, Sans doesn’t give their location away, distracting his brother with puns (“I’ve been doing a ton of work. A skele-ton.” “SANS!”) until he leaves, grumbling loudly about his brother’s incompetency.

Frisk peeks out a minute later, giving Sans an expression that’s confused and angry at the same time.

Sans shrugs.

On one hand, Sans has killed them (once) and will do nothing to save them should they be in danger, but on the other, if they managed to avoid the danger, they’re home free and he doesn’t stop them. Neutrals, Frisk thinks. Bloody indecisive.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” Flowey asks.

Frisk nods slightly.

Sans waits for them to step out of their hiding place. “Heh, guess you got lucky,” Sans says. Frisk looks down at their hand, where the flowers are peeking out of their sleeve. It’s a miracle Sans hasn’t asked them about it. Maybe they’ll pass off as some sort of flower monster at this rate.

“Snowdin?” Frisk points to the way ahead.

Sans nods, “Yeah, want me to take you there?”

Frisk takes a step back. The skeleton laughs.

He walks and Frisk follows, at two paces length behind him, stick dropped in favor of holding Flowey tight in case they have to run. Miraculously, there’s no need for that, since soon, they see a huge banner that says WELCOME TO SNOWDIN adorned with Christmas lights. There are a few monsters huddled around a tree, as well as a few shops in the area. Frisk and Flowey both let out sighs of relief.

Sans spreads his arms around. “Welcome to Snowdin,” he says, “Pap’s not usually here, so I guess you’ll have some time to rest for a while.”

Frisk nods as they look at the inn a few ways off. “Thank you,” they murmur, then point to themselves before saying, “Why are you helping?”

“Helping?” Sans does an impression of raising an eyebrow, which once again eludes what Frisk knows of physics, because Sans is supposedly made out of bone. Bones aren’t pliable. “Nah, kid, you’re helping yourself. I’m just watching from the sidelines and letting it happen.”

“Why not take me to your brother?”

Sans tilts his head to the side. “Hmm,” he shrugs again, “You’re funny. Heard ya trying to stop yourself from snickering when you were hiding from Papyrus. You’re lucky that Pap has a hard time hearing people over the sound of his own voice.”

They may be imagining it, but Frisk thinks there’s an undercurrent of bitterness in Sans’ voice.

The skeleton gives one wave for goodbye before he continues on ahead. Frisk stares at his retreating form for a second before they make their way to the inn. It was time for a good night’s sleep. And the hope of having even just one more pseudo-ally in this whole disaster fills them with determination.


End file.
